


Through a series of unfortunate Thursdays

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, POV Greg Lestrade, Sherlock is a Sergeant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22086145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: When Greg Lestrade moved into Willow lane, away from his failed marriage, he didn't expect anything extraordinary to happen.Enters his red-haired neighbour, a mysterious man whom he somehow always manages to meet on Thursdays. When it's raining. Because if there is a God, it wants Greg to look dripping wet when he runs into handsome strangers.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 41
Kudos: 205
Collections: Sherlock (BBC)





	1. Chapter 1

When Greg had stumbled upon the ad in the newspaper, the houses didn't look so cramped. The picture had been taken in July, and the first thing Greg had seen was the swimming pool in the middle of the garden. If you trusted the advert, Willow lane would seem like quite the perfect place to live. 

Now that Greg had dropped his last box in the middle of the lounge-kitchen-living room, he could distinctly hear the pitter-patter of the rain falling into the bucket generously left in the bedroom. 

It wasn't home but it was a house and that would do. And if the same boxes were still by the front door two weeks after he had moved in, well then, Greg would turn them into a nice, if unstable, coat rack.

7, Willow lane didn't quite feel like home but Greg had to admit it was nice to come home to a quiet place. No vicious glares. No screams.  
(If Greg secretly hoped for a cooked meal and a warm fire waiting for him on the other side of the door, that was only for him to know.)


	2. First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning on publishing chapters only on Thursdays, so... there you go, their first meeting! Please comment to tell me if you liked it - or if you didn't!
> 
> Additional note : in this AU, Sherlock is a sergeant working at Scotland Yard. Greg and Mycroft haven't met yet (although judging by the chapter's title, it will happen soon... ^^)

As far as he could remember, Greg easily made new friends. He had never spent lunch alone when he was younger. Now that he smoked, other officers timed their cigarette breaks to talk with him. He could get a witness to open up to him by saying the right joke or comment. He could charm his way into dusty storage rooms better than Sherlock if the case demanded it.

Somehow that meant Greg appeared as a charming, outgoing guy. The truth was that he wasn't, not really. Sure, he knew what to say and when to say it, he knew how to adapt his talk to the person in front of him. But at the end of the day, he remained the awkward boy who had asked Elena out while proceeding to trip on his own feet and dragging her to the floor. (Needless to say, she had said no).

It then came as no surprise when, after two weeks in his new house, Greg hadn't met any of his neighbours. He hadn't found the energy to offer chocolates to the nearest Granny and maintain small talk for a few hours. He could already taste her strong tea and her stale biscuits. He always came back from work too late for tea, anyway. It would be rude to bother them in the middle of the night.

Finding a tabby cat comfortably spread on his couch came as quite a shock, considering he didn't have one. As he watched, the cat stretched a little bit further down the pillow. Greg closed the door, took two quick steps, grabbed the cat and went outside. Big drops of rain fell on the cat's face, causing him to flee for his life, scratching Greg's arm on his wake. Greg sighed. He had already endured the rain all day, fruitlessly following a man who looked like the suspect.

He was mentally preparing to try again this time with his umbrella when someone cleared their throat. Greg turned his head to find grey eyes studying him. He was suddenly conscious of his state; the hair plastered to his face, the red mark left by the cat, his soggy clothes.

"Do you, by any chance, own a tabby cat?" Greg wanted to add: 'in which case you can keep that hellish creature away from me', but he thought better of it and kept silent.

"I'm afraid not. I can, however, point you to its owner's house." The stranger's voice was low and deep. Greg tried not to dwell on it too long.

Greg went back to his house, took the awful cat in his arms. The stranger was waiting on his porch. He had somehow produced an umbrella while Greg convinced the cat to stay still. Greg wasn't complaining.

Together, they walked in silence to a house a few feet away. Their neighbour, a lovely lady named Mrs Hudson, thanked them both profusely before offering them tea. Greg accepted gladly, thankful for a hot beverage after getting soaked to the bone all day long.

They all sat at the table. Greg was usually good with words. This time, though, he couldn't think of anything to say that would interest the man sitting next to him. He wasn't helping either, focused on folding his napkin into a beautiful swan.  
Thankfully, Mrs Hudson had enough to say for the three of them:

"What's your name, dear?... Oh, Greg, is that short for Gregory?... Do you know I think I have a nephew somewhere in York who's named Gregory, isn't that odd?..."

Greg let his gaze wander back to his neighbour, only to catch pearl-grey eyes already looking his way. Their intensity was a bit unnerving, to be honest. Greg scratched the back of his neck, avoiding the gaze fixed on him - or so it seemed.

Even Mrs Hudson couldn't keep up the conversation going all on her own, however. She kept leaving awkward pauses, hoping for one of two gentlemen to rescue her.

Frankly, Greg's mind was blank. He knew he should say something, anything, only he still felt like a stranger invading the poor lady's home.

"So, what do you do?" There, a simple question. Something grown-ups asked of each other.

Greg would have asked the man for his name, only it seemed rude after having spent an hour in the man's company. But he was a policeman, right? He would figure it out, 'deduce' it.

"I'm afraid I am not at liberty to tell you." The words were delivered coolly but a small smile was tugging at the edge of those lips.

"Oh don't be so mysterious, dear! Would you believe it, Greg, if I told you that I've known him since he was a boy and he won't even tell me! It's as if he doesn't trust me!"

Given the fact that Greg now knew more about her nephew's life than his own, he could understand the secrecy. He didn't say anything about it, though; merely changed the subject. He didn't want to be rude - her tea was delicious, and she seemed gentle beneath her gossiping.

Thankfully, the mysterious man didn't mind sharing tales of his youth. Greg was laughing at the image of a red-haired boy crawling under the bougainvillaea to rescue a kitten - 'the whole tree fell on my head!' - when his neighbour's phone rang.

"If you'll excuse me." The guy's mask was back on; the echoes from the corridor didn't sound like his voice at all.

Gregory attempted to talk with Mrs Hudson but his heart wasn't in it. He would often stop in the middle of his sentence, having lost his thought. Part of him was listening to the phone conversation unfolding outside the room. Mrs Hudson didn't complain once, she only reminded him of his forgotten sentence from time to time.

When Greg left, the stranger was gone from the hallway and his house looked deserted. It all seemed as if he had never been there.


	3. His Name

For a week spent working crimes, it was a peaceful one. Greg managed to begin his paperwork during his work hours, instead of doing it on his day off as usual.  Sherlock acted like his usual annoying self, apart from the incident on Friday morning  . Still, given that Sherlock didn't bring it up again, neither did Greg. It must have been for an experiment - 'the effect of the absorption of tacos on the human body',  probably.

The relative calm thus allowed Greg to take the day off, leaving with a reasonable pile of paperwork. He put Sally in charge of running the place without him. He warned her not to kill Sherlock, even though she knows he would help her hide the body. She  merely  nodded, though, so he could finish his speech quicker.

On Thursday morning, Greg took care of everything he always put for later during the week. He called back the repairmen for the problem on the roof. He went through another box, even though it was full of summer clothes he would need to store elsewhere.

At noon, he had already texted Sally twice. He  barely  refrained from calling her. Instead, he started repairing his bike. It was a fragment of his other life, the one before his marriage. The one where he wasn't a policeman working crazy hours yet.

He wasn't planning on riding the bike again. It soothed him, to take it apart and pull it together again, in a way nothing else could. Claire used to resent him spending time on his own on his only day off.

One of the few advantages of living alone again meant that he was free to do as he pleased. If he wanted to drink a beer at the beginning of the afternoon, he could. That, at least, was a relief.

As it was a sunny afternoon, he had taken the bike out onto the tarmac. That way he could recover all the vitamin D he didn't get. He was spending too much time inside offices, meeting and storage rooms these days.

Of course, by the time the sun had warmed him and he felt more alive, there had to be a passing cloud. Followed by rain.  Greg had time to think that he must have done some horrible things in his previous life before the downpour fell  heavily  on his head .

The bike was slippery under his hands. The wheels weren't attached yet; Greg would have to carry it inside. He knew his back wouldn't forgive him for this. But he wasn't about to let new paint get ruined because he was getting old.

As he navigated the bike over the muddy ground, he perceived footsteps. It was a man, hurrying under the rain. Greg didn't dare to turn around; he might drop the bike on his foot.

"May I be of  assistance ?"

Greg recognised the mysterious neighbour's voice.  He focused on pushing the bike through the grass, otherwise, he might do something ludicrous like looking at the guy and falling backwards in the mud .

"Please." His voice sounded pitiful to his ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Could you carry it on the other side?"

Between the two of them, they got the bike under the cover of Greg's garage in no time.

Greg could see the man was clearly exhausted, even if he was trying to hide his blush.

It felt a bit ridiculous, after having been helped twice by him, to ignore the man's name.

Greg extended his hand : "Gregory Lestrade."

Despite his hand being blackened by the motor oil, his neighbour shook it. He had the grip of a politician. Greg was almost surprised when he didn't hear the cameras of journalists.

"Mycroft."

He didn't offer his last name. Definitely a spy, then. Greg grinned.

"Nice to meet you." He forced his hand to return to his side. "Thanks for the bike. Want a beer?"

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. He was probably more used to brandy than beer. 

"I should go back... to work." 

And with these words, Mycroft went back to his mysterious world.


	4. When Life gives you lemon...

Greg should have seen it coming. His job was never easy for long, one of the psychopaths of the city would take care of it. At least he didn't have time to get bored.

It was worse this time, though. A child. Greg couldn't help but think of the children he could have had, killed in such a gruesome way.

They didn't have to do a lot of interviews to get the gist of what had happened. The uncle had vanished, he owned a knife just like the murder weapon, he had been jealous of his brother.

The most tiring thing had been to talk to the parents. To explain to them that their son had died at the hands of his own uncle.

Greg had left the interrogation room shaking. He had called his brother to hear the sound of his voice. Sally hadn't said anything; she was too busy talking with Anderson.

Unfortunately, he had lost his focus long enough for the new lieutenant to escape.

Sherlock was always rushing after clues and this time was no exception. Greg had had to manhandle him out of the way before he barged into the suspect's house without a warrant.

On Sunday, he had deposited a batch of muffins on his neighbour's porch. Nobody answered. It was like he had moved out entirely.

All in all, his week hadn't gone as planned. He hadn't been able to go home on Thursday, staying behind to write the paperwork his lieutenants hadn't bothered to do themselves. When the train finally stopped at his station, Greg had the beginning of a headache and his arms full of paperwork for the night - he had foolishly thought his usual backpack would suffice.

Of course, the rain was falling heavily on Greg's head and his umbrella was at the bottom of his bag. Being only a few miles away he decided to carry on, clutching the papers underneath his coat.

Clearly, today was the kind of day where everything seemed to go wrong. When Greg crossed the street to get to his house, a car screeched towards him. Greg jumped towards the sidewalk.

He was fortunately without a scratch but the papers in his arms had scattered to the winds.

Greg ran to get them even though he knew perfectly they would be ruined. He would have to get the testimonies again tomorrow. Through sheer positivity though, Greg kept on believing that at least some of them would be salvageable.

"Are you okay, sir? I do apologize, my chauffeur was in quite a hurry and-"

Greg turned around. Mycroft stared at him, mouth agape.

If Greg had been in a better mood, he would have reassured him. He would have smiled, maybe winked a little.

But the fact remained that he had a headache, his feet hurt, he was shivering in the cold rain. And maybe none of these things was Mycroft's fault. A tiny part of his brain knew that. The rest was blind with rage.

"It's fine, can't you see, I'm fine. Completely fucking fine!" Greg failed to catch one of the papers and let out a growl.

It suddenly seemed like a good idea to punch Mycroft. Greg clutched the papers tighter against his chest instead.

"How could I help?"

"Don't worry about me." Greg forced a smile. "Go back to your important conspiracies. Your chauffeur's waiting."

Mycroft's remorseful eyes followed him as Greg stormed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm sorry about this chapter, I had planned something nice, a few smiles exchanged over muffins... But then a car bumped into me, and I was hit with inspiration; although I ended up writing a horrible week for Greg. Tell me what you thought!  
> (Don't worry though, the next chapter will be about agologizing with cake!)


	5. Midnight

The next day Greg was already regretting his harsh words. He was used to making a fool of himself in front of handsome guys. Yelling at them, that was new.

The perfectly baked pastries on his porch did not help him feel better. They did help him get through his day of work - Sherlock was particularly nasty when it came to the lost paperwork.

Greg spent most of his days at work, only sleeping a few hours in his office. He managed to finish all the paperwork before his superior yelled at him. By Wednesday, he looked more like a zombie than a human.

On Thursday, Greg stayed home. He slept for a few blissful hours before waking up in the middle of the night. The moon was high in the sky, everything was calm. Greg's heart was beating too fast.

Not one to ignore his instinct, Greg got up. Something was wrong. It was in the way everything held its breath - even the rain fell quietly against the windowsill.

Greg took his gun in his drawer. It was never charged; he didn't want to be the cause of any fatal incident. His attacker wouldn't know that, however.

Greg crept downstairs, his feet moving silently on the floor. No obscure shadow was lurking downstairs and yet...

Something rapped against the door. Someone - or something - turned the knob slowly... before letting go. Yet the shadow didn't move. 

Cursing the chill coursing down his spine, Greg got to the door. The shadow hadn't moved. If it was a beast, it hadn't caught on his scent yet.

In one swift motion, Greg opened the door. Then jumped backwards as something collapsed on his doorstep.

A body? No, it was breathing. Greg dropped his gun.

As Greg moved around it, splotches of colour got illuminated. Red tainting the man's shirt and familiar strands of ginger hair...

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft only groaned in response. Greg knelt beside him.

"Alright, you have to help me, okay? We're gonna get you inside." Greg kept the apprehension out of his voice. The last thing they needed was for Mycroft to panic. "Try to hold onto my shoulders."

Mycroft moved slowly, keeping his eyes tightly closed. Once he got his arms moving, he managed to grip Greg's shoulder.

Greg carried Mycroft more easily than he would have thought. He should send more pastries to Mycroft's house. The guy could use a few more pounds.

Greg deposited Mycroft on the couch. Mycroft's breathing was heavy. Greg couldn't resist passing one hand through ginger hair.

"You still with me?"

Mycroft merely nodded but it was enough for Greg. He had seen his share of bloodied civilians and he knew the rule number one was keeping them conscious.

"Perfect. Now -"

"Door." Mycroft's whisper was urgent.

Greg remembered his jokes about spies. They didn't seem very funny now. He didn't discuss it, got to the door and closed it. Outside, a car drove away. 

"Now let me call an amb-"

Mycroft was already shaking his head. The movement pushed more blood against his already-ruined shirt.

"Alright, alright, let me just -"

Before Greg could add anything, his door burst open. Greg remembered his discarded gun too late and was left empty-handed against the woman standing there.

Usually, Greg was against hurting people but he wasn't about to hand in Mycroft. If he had to be violent in order to keep the man safe, so be it.

The woman must have seen a glimpse of the steely determination in his eyes because she took a step back.

"Anth..."

"Mycroft, shh. Don't move."

At Greg's words, the woman let out a smile that brought a chill over the room.

"I appreciate your concern sir but let me through so I can attend to my employer's injuries."

Greg looked at Mycroft who feebly nodded.

"Alright, I'll follow him then. Wasn't gonna get much sleep anyway."

The woman's face almost distorted into a grimace, he could see her fingers twitching near her gun... Yet as soon as Mycroft placed his fingers on Greg's wrist, her anger abated.

"Follow me."

Greg carried Mycroft to a black car with tainted windows. The chauffeur drove too fast but then Mycroft's face was getting pale. 

When they got to the private hospital, he still hadn't let go of Greg's wrist.


	6. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank my muse for this extra-long chapter! I hope you like it! Don't hesitate to tell me what you think with a comment!

Mycroft's face looked pale next to the bright white sheets. It was disturbing to see someone so strong... not moving. Half dead. Greg kept staring at him, expecting one eyebrow to raise when confronted with the sight of Greg's red eyes.

Mycroft didn't open his eyes. Yet his lashes fluttered from time to time. There was hope left.

Mycroft's assistant, who had introduced herself as Anthea, hadn't left his side. Neither had Greg. He had taken the hand placed on his wrist as a sign to stay.

His boss hadn't called to ask why Greg wasn't in his office so Anthea must have taken care of it. 

The room was silent save for the continuous beeping of the machines, which was why it was fairly easy to hear the raised voices at the end of the corridor.

"What do you mean you don't know? How did you obtain your diploma is beyond me. Then again I suppose the fact your uncle was the head of your department must have put the scale in your favour. Now should I remind you who I am or have you already guessed?"

Contrary to the poor intern, Greg knew that voice. The reason why Sherlock had bothered to check up on Greg wasn't obvious, though.

Greg exchanged a glance with Anthea. Her eyes were on her Blackberry but he could see every muscle of her body was taut. Had she recognized Sherlock?

Hearing Sherlock's deductions about the intern, Greg sighed. He should go save the man before he combusted out of sheer embarrassment.

As soon as Greg appeared in the corridor, Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on him.

"Aha, detective inspector! I must admit I did not count on your following me around on my day off although you possess a propensity for saving damsels in distress. Perhaps you can collect this shivering mess before it collapses to the floor." Sherlock encompasses the quivering intern with a flick of the wrist.

It took a look from Greg for the intern to collect his wits and run toward another corridor - looking exactly the same, apart from its merciful lack of rude constables.

"What are you doing here, Holmes? If today is your day off shouldn't you be doing your... experiments instead of following me around?"

"Me? Following you around?" Sherlock sniffed at the ludicrous notion. "Thankfully I have not yet grown bored enough to stoop to this level of insanity. I am merely here to check up on my brother. Why you are here - and slept on a plastic chair - is beyond even my deduction skills."

Sherlock jutted his chin a bit and Greg was struck with the similarities. The same look of defiance, the same glint of genius inside their gaze, the same way their bodies were held - as if someone was judging the way they balanced books on their heads. Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Well, Greg now knew Mycroft's last name. It wasn't, unfortunately, Bond.

Before Greg could say anything, Anthea started speaking. She had magically appeared at his elbow - perhaps she had a gadget on her boot that allowed faster-than-light running. Her phone was nowhere in sight.

"Mycroft is currently resting which means I'm not sure how helpful you would be. I can, however, inform you as soon as he is conscious again, which-"

Sherlock was already barreling towards the door. Anthea managed to get her foot in front of the door, efficiently stopping Sherlock from bursting inside Mycroft's hospital room.

"I am confident that my brother is merely being lazy and enjoying a few hours' more sleep. The only detail that surprises me in this whole ordeal is the fact that he managed to fool you, although now that I look at you I can see an affection that perhaps led you into believing him. I can assure you, my brother is fine. Once he has consumed one or two cakes he shall rise from his death bed. Although rise might be optimistic, he may be rolli-"

"Sherlock." Greg resisted the urge to grab Sherlock by his elbows and shake him - it might make even more damage. "Your brother is getting over being shot in the shoulder, your childish insults are not manifesting the gratitude you should be feeling. He could very well be dead."

"Nonsense. A wound to the shoulder would never-" Sherlock stopped muttering, his piercing gaze fixing on Greg. "How did you know Mycroft had been shot?"

"I found him bleeding out. I brought him to the hospital."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Greg could practically see the clogs turning in his "mind palace".

"I believe thanks are in order then, Inspector." Greg remained speechless. "May I inquire why my brother was left without security when he most needed it, Anthea?"

"I'm afraid I made the mistake of taking care of our slight... breach in security before dispatching help to Mycroft. By then, the Detective had already... found him."

Sherlock huffed and turned towards the door. "Make sure this kind of security breach is not repeated. Otherwise, you might have trouble finding a new place of work."

Sherlock stalked into the room and abruptly closed the door. Greg let him be alone with his brother.

"I should... go back to work."

Anthea had somehow produced her phone again. She was tapping at it quicker than any clerk in a courtroom.

"I will inform Mr Holmes of your visit when he wakes up." Anthea looked up. She seemed to be analyzing Greg's soul. "I dare say he shall be pleased."

Greg didn't have to think of anything to answer. She had already gone back to her phone.

~~~  
At work, Greg was distracted. He managed to write two words of his report before the train of his thoughts got him back to Mycroft. How was he doing? Should he call to ask about his state? Was waiting forty minutes enough time to call Anthea?

When Greg looked back at his paper, he had misspelt the witness's name. By his pen, James Hobbs had become James Holmes.

Greg sighed. He would have to make a new copy of the paper. It was going to be a long night.

~~~  
Greg spent his Thursday at Mrs Hudson's house, playing chess. The old lady was surprisingly good at it. And by that, Greg meant she won after a couple of moves, three times in a row. 

"When you spend so many hours watching your husband play, you pick up a few things." Mrs Hudson laughed. "You'll see, after a few weeks I dare you you'll be able to play more than ten minutes!"

Greg laughed and talked until he noticed the night sky outside the window.

"I should get going."

"Of course, my dear. Someone to come home to?"

"Afraid not, Mrs Hudson." Greg grinned although the remark had brought back his loneliness full force.

As Greg walked home - Mrs Hudson had lent him her umbrella, he contemplated his house. The rooms all cold and dark, the frozen pizzas in his freezer.

It came as a bit of a shock, then, to encounter a dark silhouette sitting on his couch.

"Mycroft?" The ginger hair had given him away.

His neighbour got up from the couch.

"I apologize for the intrusion. I simply wished to confess my deepest gratitude for the way you handled... things. I was made aware by Anthea of the swiftness of your actions and your bravery. Given the nature of my wound, a little delay would have made a significant difference in my recovery."

"I don't know anything about me being quick or efficient. Didn't expect anyone to be bleeding out on my doorstep so I guess you have my policeman instincts to thank for that one."

Mycroft looked at the floor, then back up. "Yes, I believe an explanation is in order. As your neighbour, I would like to calm your concern and inform you that I have no plans of repeating the experience."

"I should hope so! Don't you have bodyguards to keep you from harm, Mr Bond?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched.

"My line of work does contain some risks though troubles rarely come my way. My assailants did not wish me lethal pain they merely made a statement. I do not currently live in the house next to yours, although they did not know that. Knowing that no aid would be provided in that place, I took the liberty of asking you for help."

"I'm glad you did, too. Sherlock almost tried to break Anthea's nose when he learned she had left you without surveillance."

Mycroft let out a slow chuckle. Greg was already planning on making him laugh again. 

"Would you-" Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "Would you care to join me for dinner? We've deliciously frozen pizzas... and yeah, that's pretty much it."

Greg sent a nervous smile Mycroft's way. What was he thinking, offering cold pizzas to someone who was used to the best pizzas of Italy? The poor man was probably thinking of a polite way to say no, now. And to think that Greg used to be smooth...

"I would be delighted."

Looking into Mycroft's glinting eyes was blinding. Greg found himself smiling in response.

"Alright, then. Do take a seat while I dazzle you with my cooking skills."


	7. A whisper in the air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, unfortunately, Mycroft-free. Hope you enjoy it nevertheless! Please comment to tell me your thoughts!

When Greg went to his office on Friday morning, he tried to keep a smile from appearing on his face. He wasn't very successful because the rain on his hair reminded him how Mycroft's hair had curled on his forehead yesterday. It had been, for lack of any other word, adorable.

Ten minutes in, Sally barged in. All of his sergeants really had the same bad manners. It was a testimony to Greg's good mood that he didn't wince when Sally slammed the door.

"That grin is positively repulsing, sir."

Of course, she would notice. Greg should have chosen detectives who were less astute.

"I'll make sure it's gone by the time Mrs Dowes comes for her interview."

Greg then picked up a pen and scribbled a notepad, looking for all the world like the very busy inspector he was supposed to be.

Sally snatched the paper away before he finished drawing a perfect rendition of Sean Connery - albeit a ginger version of him.

Sally took one look at the paper, snorted then collapsed into one of the chairs.

"Is this because of Valentine's Day? Have you been corrupted by the whole aura of love surrounding us these days? Do I have to leave you under the rain to calm your raging hormones?"

If he was being honest, Greg had completely forgotten about 'lovers day' this year. Despite the constant buzzing of adverts selling roses and perfumes, Greg had managed to ignore the bright flashes of pink and red and carry on.

"No need. My mind is as efficient as ever."

"With all due respect, sir, your brain cells seem to be drowning in a pool of happiness. You look about as motivated to write reports as Sherlock, sir."

Greg repressed his snort. If Sally found out he thought her antics funny, she would manipulate him easily. Well. More easily than now, anyway.

"And I'm not seeing you doing any work, Sergeant. Don't forget that I have evaluations to mark about each of you, so-"

"I'll leave you alone to doodle some more, sir." With a smirk, Sally stood up. She stopped at the doorway. "If you need to tell someone about what's on your mind, you know where to find me."

Greg considered her offer and almost took her up on it. Then he remembered that next to her desk are Anderson's and, worse, Sherlock's. Neither are renowned for their discretion.

The following days one of Greg's cold cases makes a break-through and he gets quite busy. Leave work in the middle of the night, collapse on the sofa for an hour, rinse, repeat.

On his day off he had planned to run around his neighbourhood. Sitting down in his office all day turned him into an old bureaucrat.

The rain made him reconsider his options. He may like running with rock songs blasting in his ears but he's never been one to ignore a divine sign. If God willed him to stay on his couch, who was Greg to fight an order from above?

To appease his guilty conscience, Greg called his brother while cleaning his place. 

Oliver told Greg about his latest clients. From time to time his wife cut him off to add a detail he forgot. It was both insanely cute and so much like what Greg wanted for himself that he half-choked on air. Pretended there was too much dust in that room. Started washing the floor with energy.

It was somewhat easier to talk with his nieces. With them he didn't have any topic to avoid; Claire loved gory details. Zoe got into a detailed report of the book she started; she was so excited some french words slipped into her sentences.  
At the end of it, Greg had laughed so much he had forgotten everything to the name of the book she was praising.

The afternoon passed quickly to the sounds of his nieces giggling and, in the background, the hoover.

When Greg hung up, it was dark outside. He realized he hadn't seen Mycroft this week and it elicited a pang of regret in his chest.

Still, he had no intention of losing the positive energy he had built up. He drew his phone, hesitated only a second before sending a text to Sally.

'Drinks at the Red Lion, first round on me?'

His phone lit up with a new text almost instantly.

'You do realize I'll order the most expensive thing on their menu?'

'Fine by me.'

'Be there in ten minutes.'

Greg smiled. He'd never been more grateful to work with this rude know-it-all.


	8. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We see more of Gregs work in this chapter; I hope you like it! Don't hesitate to comment to tell me what you thought of it!

"I believe you're all acquainted with Jake Williams. He took part in racists groups in his youth, started manifesting at sixteen, published a book the year after. When the murders started, a few witnesses described men of his build. We then lost the only witness who had enough proof."

"Isn't he locked up anyway? We caught him 'cause he was driving without insurance."

"Obviously the inspector wouldn't be wasting saliva if he was still in his cell. Do keep up, Anderson. Jake is cunning enough to come out of jail on good behaviour."

"At least let me explain what's going on before you start your usual bickering. Alright so Jake did come out and now we've got him on the loose. The others of his group are likely to reappear, too."

Every sergeant shivered. The Return of the snakes. They knew what that meant; endless running, arriving too late. And everywhere, the ominous sign: a snail biting its tail. Voldemort is back, had said the papers. At first, it had made them laugh - a strangled, broken-off sound. It hadn't taken long for them to stop laughing - the journalists too.

"Anyone planning on taking holidays or days off... postpone them. We're gonna need all hands on deck."

Lestrade didn't hear any complaints; they usually waited until he was back in his office. He wouldn't blame them if they didn't, although as their boss he would have to scold them.

He carried boxes of the old cases up to his office. He thought better when he was faced with the photographs. The scene played itself in his mind and sometimes that's all it took to connect the dots.

This time all his efforts awarded him was a migraine and a pile of work piled up on his desk, waiting for him.

Greg didn't leave his office. He couldn't help thinking that the moment he relaxed, someone would be hurt. He didn't leave for the night, barely slept. Every time he had a case, he survived on caffeine and sheer force of will. This time it was worse because he didn't have a case. Not yet.

The whole floor kept quiet, waiting. When Greg stepped out of his office, he had the urge to hold his breath, else he disturbed the odd silence weighing on them.

After two days Greg sent Sherlock home for a few hours. The man was a nightmare when he had nothing to think about. He kept barging into Greg's office, stealing evidence to observe at his desk - or worse, to experiment upon.

Every time Greg closed his eyes, he could see Jake's shadow, taunting him. The man was in every corner and Greg followed the tell-tale sound of hissing, down alleys, past corridors of an abandoned college-

Sally shook him awake.

"Go home, sir. At this point, you're more zombie than human."

Greg consented to sleep somewhere else than his chair. He knew Sally was right. His back was killing him; he needed some proper sleep if he was to be useful when they needed him. He collapsed on the couch fully clothed.

Sally called him before his alarm. Greg pulled on his shoes, his stomach twisting horribly. He was glad he hadn't eaten before lying down. When he got outside, the police car was waiting for him with the motor running.

He took the wheel; it gave him something to do with his hands. He pretended to overlook Sally's shaking hands clutching her knees.

He let himself feel the tight knot of guilt around his throat - if he hadn't slept if he had seen a new detail if if if...  
After a few minutes, he breathed deeply. Turned into the inspector Sally needed.

"It's not our fault, you know that. There was no clue to discover otherwise we would have done it. The only thing we can do right now is to wait for him to slip up."

Sally turned towards him. Her eyes wouldn't meet his.

He turned back to the road, adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

"And he will slip up, Donovan."

Greg sensed her nod. He decided not to push it; depending on her reaction at the crime scene, he would decide whether to give her a few hours' rest or not.

Sally directed Greg to a little street. The location was unusual; the other victims were found in their houses, sitting down. They all lived on their own, nobody could tell for sure when they had come home.

This time the victim was on the floor. Her eyes wide open, like the others. Jake used cobra venom to kill them and they all had the stillness of puppets.

The difference was the clean-cut across her neck.

Greg turned around the body, focusing on the details. Sherlock would find more by glimpsing at the pictures but he could try.

Sally called him over. Her face was resolute; the same mask of focus Greg was currently wearing. Greg hid his pride; she was tougher than she thought.

"Sir, you should take a look at this."

The same sign, the same paint, the same snake... Greg was turning towards Donovan to ask what he was looking at, exactly, when he saw it. The light caught the tail of the snake, which was lighter than the rest.

"Do you think-"

Greg drowned her out. He was almost there, he just had to... He took three steps, stopped.

Jake attacked her from behind, slipping the syringe against her neck so she would shy away from its coldness. Then, pain.

Except... she fought back. She pushed him away, just enough for him to lose his grip on the syringe.

Greg took one more step, bent down. Shards of glass.

If she didn't have the right amount, could she have fought back a little longer?

But if she had, she wouldn't have collapsed so far from the wall. She must have stumbled back a bit, trying to scream.

And he slit her throat.

Greg looked up at Sally. She had an expectant look on her face; she recognised his expression.

"Sally, I believe we can say Jake has slipped up."

Sally smiled and Greg could feel an answering warmth in his chest. They would catch him soon.

Greg left the scene to Sally; she was eager to show she was worthy of a better position. He wasn't about to deny her the thrill of directing the team for a while.

Greg let his eyes wander over the cars parked; all he could see was the face of the latest victim. He knew she would follow him in his dreams, a silent pillar fixing him with an endless gaze...

"Detective Inspector."

Greg recognised that voice but it took him a while to replace it, given it belonged in a place brighter than this; at tea with Mrs Hudson or sitting on his couch.

"Mycroft." Greg let out his first smile in what felt like decades.

Mycroft was standing under a street light, his thin lips stretched into a smile. Greg stepped under his umbrella; he hadn't noticed it was raining.

"Thanks."

"I wouldn't want the best of our police forces to catch a cold." Greg could feel the warmth behind the joke; Mycroft's eyes were shining in the shadow of his umbrella.

"The British nation is forever in your debt."

Mycroft chuckled. It was so low Greg wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't ducking to avoid the splatter of rain on his neck.

"I have to apologize for my-" Mycroft's eyes dropped to the floor. He looked younger, the darkness erasing the years. "Lack of response, these days. A sensitive issue was raised at work and I had to, shall we say, patch things up."

Greg nodded. Reading between the lines, he understood well enough Mycroft had had to take care of a political crisis somewhere far away.

"Mrs Hudson told me you were asking about me and I am afraid I can't tell you more than that I was away."

Refraining from quoting James Bond, Greg answered quietly: "I think I can understand what kind of demands a job can imply. I mean, look at me; you can probably deduce that I'm running on four hours of sleep and I'm clearly working in the middle of the night." Greg smiled tentatively. "It's not like the murderers will wait for me to get my beauty sleep."

"I have to admit our occupations both interfere with our personal lives." Mycroft levelled his gaze on Greg; it felt like he could see through his core. "I'm glad we understand each other."

"Did you come back straight from the airport to prove you hadn't been abducted?"

The lack of light couldn't completely hide Mycroft's blush. It spread on his cheeks, highlighting the freckles there.

Greg was so focused on the freckles (how had he not seen them before? Why wasn't he warned about them?) he almost missed Mycroft's mumble.

"I may have- I mean, it seemed like an important-"

Greg bit back a laugh. He would be thrown in the Tower of England if he appeared laughing at Mycroft. The man wouldn't appreciate being called cute, either.

"Right well thanks anyway. Would you-" 

Sally's voice cut through their bubble of peace.

"Lestrade! We're finished here!"

Lestrade nodded to no one in particular, grinned at Mycroft.

"Looks like the real world is calling. You should get some rest before tackling another crisis. Wouldn't want to think of you passing out during a secret meeting."

Greg refrained from reaching over and arranging Mycroft's collar or doing something equally embarrassing like kissing the poor man.

Sally was waiting for him in the car; her neck was close to breaking given the way she was trying to get a glimpse of the man under the umbrella.

Greg kept grinning for the rest of the day.


	9. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had plans for Mycroft and Greg to meet in this chapter but then I had too much fun writing about baking and Oliver's teasing... we'll have to wait until next thursday!
> 
> Please comment to tell me what you thought it always makes my day <3

\------  
It was one thing to know the killer and to have some evidence -at last!- to assuage their claims. Catching Jake was another problem entirely.

The man was never available to be questioned. Nobody had seen him lately, though none of the members of his group let the police enter past the doormat. He hadn't taken his car, nobody had seen him in the airports.

That sort of man could hide for twenty years. The truth was, his network was too tight-knitted. Their children already glared at the police cars driving past, dark eyes and gritted teeth.

In the end, they got lucky. Jake had gone to some other house for a while, in case the police got a warrant to search his home. Jake was confined in the house with his friend's wife. The two got to talking, realized they could both gain something out of a liaison. Fortunately for Greg, Jake was better at covering his tracks after a murder than after an affair.

Jake's wife was warned about it. She seemed to think reporting him to the police was suitable revenge. Donovan was perfectly willing to hear her out. 

Greg and Donovan both interrogated the man. Under other circumstances, Williams would have acted all high and mighty, asking for a lawyer (who would be a friend owing him some help) before Lestrade could put his glass of water on the table.

This time, he was shaken up by his wife's betrayal and the fact everyone seemed to back her up in his network. It took a few hours for him to write a list of everyone who had let him down (and who had committed some crime or other). At the end of the day, he had confessed to the murders.

Lestrade allowed Donovan to take a few days off, taking upon himself the work she wouldn't be doing. Sally had completely invested herself in this case, Greg didn't want to find her sleeping at her desk a third time.

When Greg got to his office on Wednesday morning, a cup of coffee was waiting for him. On the worst days of the case, Sally used to force him to drink one cup or two.

This coffee was nowhere near the quality of what was in the coffee machine in the break room. It was neither boiling hot nor cold, for one. It was also the best coffee Greg had ever tasted.

Greg drank the whole thing in three gulps before worrying about the source of the gesture. If it was intended for someone else, putting it on Greg's desk was a weird way to offer it. Sherlock and Anderson were too busy disagreeing over who ate the last muffin to do anything like that. With Greg's luck, that coffee was poisoned; God knows he had met his share of angry criminals.

At least the culprit had given him delicious coffee. Greg would die happy - he would be completely at peace if he could enjoy one last doughnut before collapsing...

Greg got up to put the cup in the bin, took two steps before lifting it back to his face.

Instead of the usual green brand, Greg was greeted by an intricate M, intertwined with an H.

Only Mycroft would bypass leaving a note because his name was already in the name of the brand. Greg clutched the cup tighter in his hands. It was at the same time ridiculous and the best gift he had ever received. He couldn't bring himself to throw it away.

Greg put the cup on his desk and immersed himself in the pile of paperwork Sally had gratefully dumped on his desk before leaving.

At the end of the day, Sherlock marched into the office, stopped abruptly.

"The cause of your lack of focus is now made abundantly clear." Sherlock put the cup under his nose, sniffed. "Did you know his agency only sells expensive types of tea? I guess meeting you has expended his... horizons."

"Don't you have your new roommate to go home to?" 

"His name is John." Sherlock puffed up with pride; it would have been funny if it weren't for the miracle of Sherlock having found a friend. "And he has requested my presence for a traditional Chinese food take-out dinner. You know, Greg, a visit to your neighbour would do you good. You shall be expected."

Greg was so stunned by the use of his real name he gaped at Sherlock while the man twirled out of the room, his coat billowing around him.

Greg stayed behind that night, pretending to focus on work while staring at the cup from the corner of his eye. When Greg finished the paperwork, it was too late to hope for a courtesy call to his neighbour's place. 

On Thursday, Greg got up early and decided on a whim to call his brother.

"Do you realize what time it is?"

"My alarm clock screamed it to me. Consider yourself lucky that it's one hour later where you are."

"Isn't this your day off? Why do you need to - Are you taking up running again?"

Greg could hear Oliver's laughter through the innocent tone. Every year, usually in March, Greg put his alarm one hour earlier and ran around his block. Last year he had managed to catch a cold after two days of being rain-soaked.

"Not gonna repeat last year's debacle, thank you. I actually had to see my doctor."

"Why are you calling in what qualifies as the middle of the night? Want me to read a bedtime story? You should know I've perfected my Smaug voice."

"No, you know, I was just er-" Greg envisioned the amount of teasing he would get if he talked of Mycroft. "Checking in. To see if everything was alright and, yeah, I wanted to know if you could send me one of Granny's recipes?"

"Ah, I see. Who is this person you've met? How serious is this? Should I send you the lemon treacle tart or her chocolate-raspberry cake?"

Greg passed a hand over his face, willing away his blush. If only his brother didn't know him as well...

"I should add that in the margin of the chocolate cake she has added 'perfect for candlelit dinner'." Oliver's voice was too mischievous to be trusted.

Greg sighed. This couldn't get any worse, anyway. Best get on with it or he would never get the cake ready.

"I just- well, it's- his name is Mycroft." Gregory finally mumbled, feeling like a five-year-old with his first crush.

"And when's the wedding?"

"Well, I'm certainly not planning on inviting you now that-" Greg heard a crash on the other line. He straightened up. "You okay?"

"Yup, he's fine. Now, what's this I hear about a wedding?"

Greg shouldn't have tempted the gods. Of course, the situation would get worse.

"Nothing, Anne, you know how he gets sometimes." Greg sighed. "I only wanted a recipe?"

"Trying to impress someone, right? Well, you should ask her what her favourite flavour is, so you don't get it wrong. I remember once I did this amazing cake for a boy, only for him to say he didn't have a sweet tooth! I mean, what kind of person would say that?"

Mycroft Holmes, that's whom. Greg got up, started pacing around his living room. She was right; this was a terrible plan. Mycroft would smile politely and tell him _that's so nice please put it next to the one Mrs Hudson brought._ With Greg's luck, Mycroft wouldn't even be there and the cake would get comfortably mouldy on his doorstep for a week.

"Greggie?"

Greg snapped out of his panicked thoughts.

"Still here." Greg inhaled, listened to the pitter-patter of rain, outside. "Sorry to have bothered you both, I should really get going on my- laundry."

Anne laughed. "Come on now, stop joking. You don't have laundry at five in the morning."

"If you want to get rid of that meddler, just say the word and I'll wrestle the phone like a ninja."

Greg listened to their subsequent banter with a smile.

"Don't worry about it. I wasn't thinking clearly earlier, I wanted to bake-"

"-for this Mycroft, yes?"

"Sorry if I got mixed up with the pronouns, this one doesn't tell me anything."

"To be fair, I didn't tell Oliver until five minutes ago so he couldn't have told you, really."

"Oh, alright. And why are you sounding so unsure? It's a good thing, right?"

"Well, I just now realized that baking something would end up with my kitchen catching fire or, worse, him hating it. I don't want to overstep some boundary or something."

"That's bullshit. You shouldn't listen to Anne's stories. She doesn't know what she's saying."

"He's right, you know. You should just go for it. What's the worst that could happen?" 

Greg had a brief flash of himself standing outside a firmly closed door, getting soaked to the bone. Mycroft would get awkward every time they'd run into each other.

"Don't envision it! It was a rhetorical question! My God sometimes you suck at advice, babe."

"No, it wasn't bad advice. I just have to... get on with it."

"I'll send you the madeleines recipe."

"Let us know how it goes! Love you!"

In the end, the hardest thing Greg had to do was waiting an entire hour for the dough to rise. The rest was surprisingly easy; he had all the right ingredients, he didn't burn anything and nothing caught on fire.

Greg put his creation on a plate, found a nice cloth to wrap around it and went outside. The rain poured down as if it had waited for Greg to start.

Greg waited for a bit on the doorstep. Maybe Mycroft was still sleeping. The thought of a rumpled looking Mycroft brought a soft smile to his lips.

Greg took a deep breath, knocked on the door. 


	10. Forelsket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a sweet one and I hope you will enjoy this bundle of fluff! I always enjoy hearing your thoughts so feel free to comment <3

Greg fretted over the plate, arranging the pastries in a perfect arc then added the last two over it. There. It wouldn't look like he had tried too much.

Before Greg could rearrange the pastries into a flower or a heart, the door opened.

Mycroft stared back at him, a soft smile gracing his lips. Somehow Greg hadn't expected to see him.

He wasn't wearing a full three-piece suit today. He had lost the tie and the shoes but not the waistcoat. Greg thought it strangely endearing.

"I come bearing gifts."

Mycroft's gaze dropped to the pastries; his eyes glittering when he looked back up.

"Has Sherlock told you about my unhealthy love for french pastries?"

"Figured it out all on my own." Greg felt a giddy smile form on his lips. "I am a detective, after all."

"Of course." Mycroft inclined his head; his eyes seemed a lot closer. "Scotland Yard's finest. Do come in."

Mycroft's home was a lot lighter than Greg had pictured. No big curtains hiding the sun, no coffins, no tapestry hiding secret passageways - or at least none that Greg could spot. 

Greg wandered into the hall before stopping. Mycroft took the plate from him before taking his coat.

Mycroft put the plate on a table next to his couch.  
Before Greg could join him, a dark shape threw itself on his leg. Greg stumbled a bit against the coatrack.

"Oh I apologize, Gregory, I usually keep Napoleon in another room when-"

"Napoleon? Should I speak in French then?" The dog wagged its tail. " _Tu es vraiment mignon pour une réincarnation d'empereur, tu sais ça? Qui c'est le plus mignon des chiens? C'est toi!"_

Greg looked up into amused eyes. He had forgotten about Mycroft for a second.

The dog licked his palm, silently asking for more cuddles. Greg rolled his eyes at Mycroft.

"Looks like you've been adopted." A light smile graced Mycroft's lips.

"Careful. He may come back home with me." Greg flashed a grin before straightening up.

"If you keep talking to him in French, I may let you." Mycroft blushed slightly but didn't withdraw his gaze. "Please, sit."

Mycroft started explaining how he acquired Napoleon as a gift for his brother but Sherlock wasn't well enough to take care of it.

"Drugs," Mycroft answered Greg's raised brow.

Greg nodded. He had noticed the old syringe marks on Sherlock's arms.

Somehow Greg started talking about Olivier, how Greg had adopted half the dogs in their old neighbourhood, offering to walk the dogs on the weekends. Olivier had always pleaded to have a poney. Their parents got them a goldfish.

Mycroft laughed at that. It changed the lines of his face, making him look younger. Greg got the laugh punched out of him.

Somehow the next time Greg looked up the sky was dark and the madeleines were gone. Mycroft stopped in the middle of his story - about a conspiracy in a lab - that resembled eerily an old case.

Mycroft followed his gaze, a momentary flicker of surprise in his eyes when he was met with the starry sky.

"How fast had the time flown by..."

Greg smiled shyly at Mycroft. He didn't want to leave but he didn't want to outstay his welcome, either.

"I better get going, then."

Mycroft stood up, straightening up his waistcoat even though it hadn't moved.

"Of course." Mycroft's voice was slow, with a hint of regret in it.

"I should bake you something more often."

Mycroft shook his head even as his eyes shone with warmth. "I think my waistline would disagree with you."

Feeling bold, Greg got up. The motion brought him face to face with Mycroft. Greg let his fingers gently graze Mycroft's waist. The room got silent; Greg wasn't sure they were breathing anymore.

Greg looked back up into Mycroft's eyes, finding fear and anticipation reflected back to him.

"Looks fine to me." Greg let a soft smile playing around his lips.

Mycroft hummed then said in a murmur: "Careful. I might be convinced."

He swayed forward, stopped a few seconds from grazing Greg's lips. Greg held his breath, closed his eyes. He felt Mycroft's fingers against his temple, gently tracing the path to his lips.

Greg let out a breath as Mycroft's fingers traced the outline of his mouth.

Then Mycroft's lips were on his and Greg forgot about everything else. His hands tightened on Mycroft's waist and he felt Mycroft sigh in response.

When they broke apart, Mycroft straightened up slowly, letting his hand graze Greg's cheek before falling to his side.

Greg blinked back to reality. Mycroft was already gazing at him but his gaze fell to the ground when he noticed Greg staring.

"Shall I take that as a yes to try my 'éclairs au chocolat'?"

"Your argument was pretty... persuasive, I must admit." A small blush adorned Mycroft's cheeks. Greg bent down to kiss it.

Greg walked back to his flat, oblivious to the plate he had left on Mycroft's table and to the rain falling down on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Greg says to the dog: "You're really cute for a reincarnated emperor, you know that? Who's the cutest dog? That's you!"


	11. Nighttime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter finds you all well and healthy! 
> 
> I apologize for the lack of updates lately, I hope the length of this chapter will make up for it.  
> Please comment about what you thought of this chapter, I"'m always glad to hear from you.

The week passed in a blur. Greg signed forms, read reports and completed them, but his mind was elsewhere. Somehow he kept finding himself back on that couch, laughing at one of Mycroft's stories. Often he would go back to work without letting himself finish his thought, yet a pleased smile stayed on his lips.

He didn't get any word from Mycroft, apart from a cup of tea appearing magically on his desk one morning. It was something fancy with a lot of flavours in it, unfortunately, Greg only tasted the cinnamon in it. It kept him warm for the rest of the afternoon.

On Thursday, Mycroft's house was empty. Nobody went to answer Greg's knock - Greg had half-expected a butler to tell him Mr Holmes was on duty for the Queen.

Greg spent his afternoon losing at chess against Mrs Hudson - she assured him he had improved since the last time. He was not so sure, given she had managed to kill his Queen in a few minutes.

When she brought tea, she remarked: "Is poor Mycroft out working again?"

"I think so."

Mrs Hudson tutted. "He should have called you. My husband used to travel a lot - he's long gone now - and I'm telling you, he never left without warning me. Sometimes one of his - erm, minions, would tell me the news but he always made sure I knew."

"Mycroft and I are not -" Greg stopped. He wasn't sure what he should tell Mrs Hudson. They hadn't talked about it. It was still early days, after all. Was Mycroft even out?

"I always say, to each their own." Mrs Hudson winked. "You know, I was telling Janine the other day, from the day they appeared on my doorstep, I could tell those two were made for each other."

Greg rubbed his flaming cheek. He must have been so obvious in his admiring looks. God, if Mrs Hudson had noticed then Mycroft must have known, too. With a cough, Greg changed the topic to the latest murder - it always cheered her up.

A few hours later, Greg came back to his flat. He left the lights of the living room turned off. He didn't want to see his lonely sofa standing there.

Greg got to the window. The light of the moon shined back at him, only half hidden by the clouds. Greg opened the window wide before settling on the windowsill. The neighbourhood was eerily quiet at that hour, only the noise of teens laughing and voices on the telly, downstairs.

Greg let his head fall on his knees, breathing deeply. The night air was filled with the scent of rain.

Greg wished he had kept his old CD player. It would give him something to focus on other than the silence. He hadn't thought of the depth of silence when he had moved out. His head was too filled with the endless bickering.

Greg made a mental note to buy one, knowing full well he would forget all about it when he got back to work.

Greg straightened up, searched his pockets for the cigarette pack he had bought without ever lighting one.  
He picked up one. It would be nice, he thought, just to give his hands something to hold. He didn't need to smoke, really. He would go right back to nicotine patches tomorrow.

As Greg was opening the pack, his phone rang. He jumped and could only grasp at thin air as the pack met its death on the wet pavement.

Greg picked up on the last ring, half-convinced Oliver had installed cameras and had planned this call. His brother was desperate enough to see him healthy.

"What?"

"Gregory. Is this a bad time?"

"No, no, it's rather - a nice surprise, actually."

"I'm glad to hear it. I wouldn't want to impede your sleep."

"It's not that late. So, where are you right now?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you exactly."

"Did you catch the bad guys?"

"Nothing so boisterous as that. I merely supervised some matters. It involved copious hours of listening to spoiled politicians and unhealthy amounts of tea to appease frayed nerves."

"I think what you mean is" Greg cleared his throat, taking a deeper voice "I was sent by the Queen to defend our country, and after what seemed an endless struggle, I succeeded thanks to the strength given to me by our national beverage."

"Gregory... Quite ridiculous." A chuckle resonated through the receiver. "It appears you're still under the misconception that I'm a spy. I'll admit I am loathe to correct you at this point."

"Right..." Greg grinned in the darkness. "Oh, I meant to thank you for the tea. It was delicious."

"It was my pleasure, Gregory. I wouldn't want our police forces to tire." Mycroft's voice was softer. Greg suddenly wished he could see him. He was probably still wearing his suit of the day. "Did you spend an agreeable week?"

"Pretty calm, to be honest. We tied up the loose ends of our latest case. Sherlock threw a tantrum on Monday. Donovan got her heart broken by the same bastard that she got back with lat month. She almost bit my head off on Tuesday."

"If that is your definition of a slow week, I'm now positive you would laugh if you heard what my meetings were like.

"What? Didn't you have your own lot of politicians throwing a tantrum?"

"I would never put it like that in front of them, but some of them do act like ill-bred children."

"If you want me to help you hide a body, I don't have anything planned for the rest of the night."

"Really, Gregory. I would expect a police officer to know better..."

"Exactly, I do know better! I already know how to avoid rookie mistakes. Nobody would ever know."

"As tempting as that offer may be, I'm afraid I have to decline. I finally made them see the light; it would seem like a waste of time to kill them now."

"See, you did think about it." Greg looked up at the moon. "If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?"

"I can assure you I wouldn't choose my current location, for a start. Everything is horrendously dull. I'm starting to miss the rain."

"Spoken like a true Englishman. So what, you would just come back home?"

"Yes, I imagine. It's not a very exotic choice, I'm afraid." Mycroft simply breathed for a moment. "What about you?"

"Where-" Greg stopped himself before saying _wherever you are._ It had barely been a week since they had last seen each other. "I guess I would choose France. I would get to see my family a bit. My nieces, they grow up so fast. It would be nice to see them before they get to the age when hugging your uncle to death is no longer fun."

Greg put his free hand out, letting the rain touch his skin. If the girls were here, he would be jumping into the puddles in the street, he thought with a smile.

"I'm afraid it will take a few days for me to settle things but afterwards, we might... I was wondering if you could teach me how to bake french pastries?"

Greg could picture it, Mycroft stirring up the dough, focusing on it with a small frown.

"Of course. We could do that next week?"

"I would like that. I should let you sleep now." Greg could hear the warmth of Mycroft's smile through the phone. "It must be getting late."

Greg checked his screen; it was nearing midnight. His complaint that he wasn't Cinderella got lost in the sound of a deep yawn.

"I believe that's my cue to say goodnight."

"Goodnight, M'croft."

"Sleep well, Gregory."

By the time Greg's cheek had hit his pillow, he was fast asleep.


	12. An invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy!  
> As always, your comments make my day so feel free to tell me your thoughts on this chapter!

Greg managed to get through his week without having to arrest his own Sergeant for the murder of one Sherlock Holmes. That felt like no small prowess. To add actual work on top of that was a miracle that left Greg exhausted and counting down the days before his annual holiday like a kid before Christmas.

By Thursday, almost everything was ready for his departure the next day. He had booked the trip to France, he had thrown clothes at random in a suitcase before placing carefully his gifts for the girls on top.

Greg had planned on sleeping soundly for most of the morning. Once he was in France he knew he would be up early to enjoy his family a bit longer and to be honest he needed the sleep if he wanted to muster the energy needed.

His plan was disrupted by a knock on the door at nine. With his luck, it would be someone selling hoovers or Tupperware containers. Greg grumbled before walking barefoot to his door. He had half a mind to bring his gun to scare away the fool on his porch. The poor soul would warn all his colleagues about the crazy sod and then Greg would have some peace and quiet.

The icy politeness written on his face melted away when he faced the disturber of his peace.

Mycroft was wearing his usual three-piece suit and a shy smile.

"I returned at some point during the night. I figured I would wait until a more reasonable hour before coming to see you." Mycroft's eyes took in Greg's appearance. "I realize now I did a miscalculation. I do apologize if I dis-"

The rest of his sentence was lost in the space between their mouths as Greg kissed the poor fool before he apologized so much he turned blue in the face.

"You speak too much," Greg whispered when he let Mycroft go.

Mycroft nodded. His hair was slightly ruffled, his eyes unblinking and it was possible Greg had broken the British government.

"Sorry if I was a bit much." Greg dug his toes in the carpet. "I missed you, is all."

When Greg managed to meet Mycroft's gaze, he paused for a few moments, transfixed. Maybe it was the sun or maybe Greg wasn't awake enough. Whatever it was, Mycroft looked like he was glowing.

"I-I too, Gregory."

"Come in, please."

Mycroft nodded twice before following Gregory inside. Greg grinned at him. He couldn't help it, it was so nice to look at him. 

"So, how was your trip?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything of substance, although I can assure you the plane's food made me dearly miss your cooking."

Greg put a hand on his heart. "I knew you were after me for my recipes!"

"You're right. I'm a thief. You should arrest me for _crime de haute trahison_."

"Why am I not surprised that you know how to say 'crime of high treason' in French..."

Greg shook his head in despair, although he couldn't keep a straight face. A smile made his lips quiver and soon they were both laughing heartily.

"Come here, then. I'll teach you how to bake a decent breakfast."

Greg guided Mycroft through the making of a batch of _pains au chocolat_. He left him in charge of the dough while he showered and found something to wear other than his pyjamas. When he came back, Mycroft was concentrated on the task at hand. He had obviously memorised each step of the recipe Greg dictated.  
Meanwhile, Greg kept getting distracted by Mycroft's hands. 

Some time later, another knock on the door interrupted Greg's tale of his week. Greg answered Mycroft's quizzical look with a shrug.

Greg opened the door to reveal Mrs Hudson. Her smile only grew when she spotted Mycroft hovering in the hallway behind Greg.

"I'm glad you're both here! I managed to get Sherlock to agree to a visit so I thought I would prepare a meal for everyone on Sunday? Sherlock would bring John, of course, then you two lovebirds. Mrs Turner invited herself, I'm afraid, so we'll have to endure her usual tales about her cats. What do you say?"

"Well, I would love to, Mrs H, really. It's just that I'll be in France at the time."

Mrs Hudson looked faintly surprised that Greg wouldn't be there because of something as foolish as a sea between them. She quickly recovered.

"Well, we'll just have to do this dinner earlier, won't we. Are you busy tonight, Mycroft dear?" 

"I am not although I wouldn't want to impose... on such short notice."

"Nonsense. I'm sure Sherlock can find some time for me in his rigorous schedule and Mrs Turner hasn't had something to do since you were wearing nappies."

Greg nodded. "Let us bring something then, at least."

"Well, if your baking skills are what Mycroft claims they are, I wouldn't be averse to a French pastry myself."

Greg blushed under the compliment but nodded. Mrs Hudson exchanged a few pleasantries before hurrying down the road to the market before it closed.

Greg closed the door before turning to Mycroft with a smile.

"You gushed to Mrs Hudson about my cooking skills, huh?"

"I may have been boasting your feasts to Sherlock and her when our paths crossed." A slight blush adorned Mycroft's cheeks.

"You might as well have put an advertisement through the whole of England boasting my merits."

Mycroft took a few steps to Greg, leaning down to say :  
"I'm sure that can be arranged, if you wish."

Greg laughed quietly so as not to disturb the bubble around them. Mycroft's eyes crinkled at the corners in response.  
The oven timer broke through the silence, shaking them apart.

"Well, then, let's see if your _pains au chocolat_ will make England proud."


	13. Family dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the length of the chapter makes up for the delay! We get to meet John in this one and I managed to write the family dinner without forgetting someone in a corner - or at least, I hope so!  
> Your comments make my day so please tell me what you thought of all this!

It wasn’t until Greg was in front of Mrs Hudson's door that he started worrying. 

He had changed into his best suit – the one he wore at court. He was sure Sherlock would disapprove; to him, if it wasn’t made by his personal tailor it wasn’t worth wearing.

Greg wiped his sweaty palm on his pants before knocking on the door. Mycroft had gone to fetch flowers for Mrs Hudson – or, more likely, to ask one of his minions to do it for him. Greg hoped he was already inside.

This oddly felt like being introduced to the family, even though he had met Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. Thankfully, he had brought a peace offering – lemon meringue pie, which Mycroft had assured was Sherlock’s favourite.

Surprisingly, Anthea opened the door. Greg raised his brow but didn’t comment. Her hair was pulled in her usual tight ponytail and she was wearing her dressed-to-kill outfit, though she had lost the high heels. It was disconcerting to look down at her.

Greg followed her example and toed off his shoes in the hall, before following her to the dining room.

Mrs Hudson was delighted to see him, she hurried over to him with a relieved smile – leaving Mrs Turner mid-sentence. Greg fancied her relief was in account of his arrival rather than her escape of Mrs Turner’s story.

"Greg, dear! And you’ve brought cake, really, you shouldn’t have!"

Greg surrendered the pie to her hands and hovered to Mrs Turner’s side.

"You must be Mycroft’s young man."

It had been a long time since Greg had been called young; he foolishly smiled and stayed by her side. Once she had explained to him how she had adopted her ten cats, he started regretting his decision.

"Lestrade. I must confess when Mrs Hudson said she had invited my brother’s ‘sweetheart’, I assumed she was joking."

Greg was almost relieved to see Sherlock, which was saying something.

"Sherlock. Nice to see you too."

Sherlock squinted at Mrs Turner for half a second before deeming her uninteresting. A pointed cough stopped Sherlock from saying anything more. He turned to what must be Sherlock’s roommate.

He wasn’t at all what Greg had imagined; he looked, well, normal.

The man did his odd cough again, raising his brow at Sherlock.  
Sherlock sighed before saying in his best I’m-so-bored-of-these-peasants voice :

"Right. John Watson, meet Lestrade. Lestrade, John."

Greg smiled at John, meeting him in a handshake which almost broke his hand.

"Greg, please."  
Sherlock jutted his chin: "What was that?"  
"His name." John muttered.

"Nonsense, he is Detective Inspector Lestrade, nothing more."

Greg and John shared a smile but before one of them could correct Sherlock, Mycroft walked into the room. Greg immediately smiled when he spotted him – he couldn’t help it.

Ignoring Sherlock’s mutters and eye rolls, he sauntered over.

Mycroft had changed while he was away. Given the state of his waistcoat by the time they had finished cooking, it was probably a good idea. Greg should buy Mycroft a ‘kiss the cook’ apron for Christmas. Greg smiled wider at the thought.

"Hullo." Greg leaned into Mycroft but didn’t kiss him. They hadn’t brought up PDA yet and he didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his brother. "You cleaned up nice."

Mycroft looked down self-consciously at his blue suit. He had forgone the tie and he had left the vest in Mrs Hudson’s hands. Greg trailed his fingers down the silky waistcoat. It made Mycroft blush, highlighting his freckles. Greg smiled and released the poor man before he swept him back to his flat.

"I hate to burst your bubble but everything has found their seats and poor Mrs Hudson is waiting for you."

Greg sat next to Anthea – who only sat down once Mrs Hudson had exclaimed she couldn’t let a sweet young lady go back to work famished.

Mycroft sat in front of him, his eyes distant and his fingers fiddling with his napkin. Greg rested his socked toes against Mycroft’s shin. The fiddling slowed down and stopped.

The dinner passed in a rush. Mrs Hudson kept cutting her stories short to check on something in the kitchen; Sherlock tried to finish them for her, adding pirates and hidden treasures. It made everyone chuckle – Greg caught Mycroft hiding his smile behind his glass of wine.

Mrs Hudson kept reaching to smooth Sherlock’s collar or his hair.

"You know, when he was younger his brother dropped him off before going to class. His hair was in a mess like you wouldn’t believe!"

John frowned slightly. "You knew Sherlock when he was little?"

"Oh yes, Mycroft and Sherlock came to live in the flat almost next door. And Mycroft was always busy with his studies you see, and it was obvious they couldn’t ask their parents for help, poor things, so I watched over Sherlock when he came back from school."

Greg was slightly stunned at the revelation. He had never thought to ask Mycroft how he had ended up living here, or how he had met Mrs Hudson. Mycroft running away from home with his brother and renting a flat while studying hadn’t been on his mind, somehow.

John then regaled the table with the stories of weird cases Sherlock had told him about. In a few minutes, he had the whole table hanging on his lips.

Greg expected Sherlock to interfere with his usual I-know-better attitude, but he kept silent. His eyes were boring into John’s face like he did when he interrogated someone.  
It meant that somewhere in his brain, the entire story was being stored.

Mycroft politely listened to Mrs Turner’s tales of her different cats while Anthea crafted mysterious tales that involved a red-haired spy and his assistant.

The two of them got to more and more absurd quests in order to save Britain. Mycroft remained turned the other way, his eyes trained on Mrs Turner.

When Anthea got to the part where M met the famous Inspector Auguste Lupin, Mycroft swiftly turned his head.

"Come now, Anthea, that’s enough talk about work."

Mrs Hudson turned the attention away from the staring match between employer and assistant by bringing the pudding.

The whole table oohed and aahed, except Sherlock who crossed his arms like a toddler who hadn’t gotten enough sleep on his nap.

"I’m allergic." He complained when Mrs Hudson waved a plate in front of him.

"Sherlock, behave." Mycroft said. He had straightened on his chair; Greg wanted to smooth over the lines forming between his eyebrows.

"Take the plate, Sherlock." John’s voice had pitched lower. "Being your doctor, I can assure you you’re not allergic. And if you somehow collapse from the sheer effort of enjoying the pudding your brother and Greg have made, rest assured I will revive you."

From the look in John’s eyes, Sherlock did not want to find out what happened once he had to be brought back to life.

Sherlock sighed in defeat. He took the plate Mrs Hudson was holding.

Mycroft’s foot came to rest upon Greg’s under the table. Greg released the breath he had been holding.

The rest of the dinner passed without another hitch. By the end, everyone had relaxed again and Mrs Hudson was smiling from ear to ear.

Greg yawned a few times before Mycroft subtly said to Mrs Hudson that they better get going. Greg was reminded that he had a ferry to catch the next day, and he stood up from the table with Mycroft. They left to a chorus of goodbyes.

Mycroft escorted Greg back to his flat like a perfect gentleman, a hand at the small of his back.

Greg kissed him against his front door, revelling in their privacy. He managed to sneak a hand between Mycroft’s waistcoat and his shirt before Mycroft pulled away, panting.

"I believe it’s best if we say goodnight now."

Greg caught his breath a bit, shaping the shape of Mycroft’s jaw with his hand. It would be a long time before he got to do this again, he thought.

He pressed a small kiss on Mycroft’s nose, on his freckles, on his forehead.

"Goodnight." One last kiss on Mycroft's temple, next to his ginger locks. "Goodnight."

Mycroft pressed a single kiss on Greg’s palm before smiling almost shyly and stepping away from the door. He walked down to the curb, where a car was waiting for him.

Greg watched as it drove away.


	14. Storm

Greg had come back from his holiday in France with delicious chocolates for Mycroft, only to be steered to the car by Anthea. Mycroft was sent abroad, she explained. She couldn't tell him where.

When she dropped him off at his flat, Greg found it smaller than he remembered - and a bit stuffy. There seemed to be a Mycroft-shaped hole in the living-room.

Greg sorted through his suitcase - no point in leaving it in the middle of his bedroom like he always did. He sent a text to Oliver - got home ok - and received an answer immediately - the kiddies send their love!

The sound of the tv droned out the silence surrounding the flat, but Greg couldn't concentrate. He kept glancing elsewhere, getting up to get something then forgetting about it, fidgeting restlessly. 

He spent the week in much the same mood. He kept expecting Mycroft to hover at the edges of his vision. It was becoming ridiculous yet he couldn't help it.

Thankfully he could never get bored with his job and the case they had muddled through before he left was still as mysterious as ever. Since Greg was back, he was able to convince Sherlock to come to help them - a murderer on the loose and no lead whatsoever.

That meant Greg had to endure Sherlock's endless comments about his 'pining', however. But since the victim's little son was believed to be kidnapped, they had no time to waste on that. Thankfully Sally was away on her own holidays; they didn't have to worry about her imploding. She had never taken well to Sherlock's various deductions.  
As it was, Greg ignored Sherlock's meddling and Mycroft's absence and carried on.

By Wednesday, Sherlock was convinced the culprit was one of the victim's colleagues. They interviewed them again, to no avail. It was midnight when Greg finished the paperwork.

He looked up to see one of their youngest Constables hovering at the door of his office.

"Yes? What are you still doing here?" Greg was usually the last one to leave; even Sherlock had been dragged away by John earlier.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to- I just- it's probably not that important but-"

"What is it?" Greg cursed the fact that he couldn't remember the kid's surname. Thankfully he didn't seem to notice.

"It's just that, one of the men we notified didn't turn up, sir."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"I'm sorry sir, I told Anderson and he said not to worry, seeing as he's not one of our main suspects." 

"Well, he is now! What's his name, address?"

Greg jotted the information down on his notepad before putting on his coat.

"Do you want me to go with you, sir?"

Greg stopped. He needed his sergeant, not this new constable who had obviously never seen a gun from up close.  
Where was Sally when he needed her?

"No, it's fine. Just, notify Sherlock, will you? Sherlock Holmes."

If it turned out to be a false lead, Sherlock would scream himself hoarse. If it didn't, though...

"Stay here. I'll call if I need backup."

Greg rushed to the elevator. He left his umbrella - Mycroft's gift - behind.

\-----  
The rain had started when Greg got in the car. By the time he got to Noah Scott's house, he couldn't perceive anything apart from the rain falling on his windshield. It looked like a storm was starting.

Greg sighed and silently gathered his badge, handcuffs and gun. He couldn't wait for Sherlock to get there. He needed to check what this was.

Greg turned around the house slowly. A grey car was parked in front of it; in the garden were apple trees and a pool hidden by a plastic cover.

Everything seemed quiet and unfortunately, he didn't have a warrant. He would have to do this 'old-style': by knocking politely and hoping for an answer.

As was expected at this time of night, nothing moved. Lestrade knocked a second time, three hard knocks. In another house, a dog barked in answer. Greg's left hand clenched and unclenched on his badge. Behind him, the rain fell down more forcefully on the pavement.

Beneath all that noise, Greg heard something oddly rhythmic. He turned around. A man was running to his car, a child in tow. 

When Greg raised his gun, Noah grabbed the kid.

"One more step and the kid disappears, you hear me?" Noah had to scream against the wind, but his words rang perfectly well in Greg's ears.

"Fine. Let's just do this... calmly. You have nothing to fear right now if you give back the child we can plead a good case for you."

Unfortunately, the wind blew away most of Lestrade's speech. Noah scoffed. Greg could see his arm tightening against the kid's neck. The kid - Josh Brown - was shivering violently. 

Greg raised his gaze back to Noah. He needed to keep his eyes on him at all times. At some point, the man was bound to slip up. 

A sudden light illuminated Noah's features - headlights. Noah was starting to panic.

"What's that, what's that? Is that your backup, you-"

Greg turned to the car. It wasn't back up - how he hoped the constable had called them already. It was a cab.

Sherlock Holmes and his love of cabs would forever baffle him.

It was the split-second Noah needed, though. He pushed Josh away from him and got in the car in one swift motion. By the time Sherlock and John hurried over to Greg, the car was a distant point at the end of the road.

Lestrade had spent that time to curse his lack of professionalism. He should have notified someone else than Sherlock.

When they arrived, he was back in control. He had looked at the kid, shivering in the rain yet not moving to find shelter and it had brought him to his senses.

Noah was on the loose but at least Lestrade had managed to save Josh. Tonight the little boy would sleep in a safe place. That was something to be thankful for, at least.

"What happened?"

"I should have known it was him, of course, he-"

"Not now, Sherlock. John, go to Josh and see that he's not hurt. His name is Joshua Brown. Sherlock, you're coming with me."

Sherlock wouldn't replace Sally but he would be of more use convicting a criminal than reassuring a child.

Greg and Sherlock ran to the car. Greg took the wheel and Sherlock used his knowledge of London roads to guide him - turn right, no left, he wants to get to the airport, obviously. 

After a few turns, they managed to see a car in the distance. Thankfully at that time of night, there weren't many cars out and about - and Sherlock was adamant he could recognize the plate even from this far away.

"Excellent, he's headed to the bridge. Everyone knows it's being repaired. Well, everyone apart from this oblivious fool."

"I expect he was too busy murdering Josh's mother."

"That's no excuse!"

Greg didn't dignify Sherlock with an answer. He was too busy looking through the windshield. The grey car was parked with its headlights turned towards them. He couldn't see Noah anywhere. They were half-blinded by the light anyway.

"Stay in the car."

Greg cocked his gun. Not seeing anything through the damn rain was no excuse. He needed to be prepared.

Something clicked somewhere to his right. Greg turned.  
Of course, the idiot wouldn't listen to him. The sod still thought he was invincible.

"Go back inside!" Greg mouthed at Sherlock. He knew the man could read his lips, but he huffed and crept forward. Greg could have punched him.

Greg turned to the car. It was in the right position to flee the scene if the driver didn't care about colliding into Greg's car - and Noah surely didn't.

Perhaps Noah hadn't left at all. He was merely waiting in the driver's seat... Greg squinted, tilted his head... Was that a shadow?

That's when the engine roared to life. Greg fired the gun, once, twice. He was aiming for the tires, he didn't want to hurt Noah if he didn't have to. 

The shot was perfect. The suddenly flat tire made the car swerve instead of going towards the road. It lost its momentum, which was the effect Greg wanted. It swerved towards the edge of the bridge, which wasn't what Greg had expected.

Now the car was swerving rapidly towards Greg, its tires squeaking horribly on the wet pavement. Greg could only watch in horror as it got closer to him.

And when it plunged off the bridge, it dragged Greg in its wake.


	15. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut this week's story in two because it was a bit long.   
> Tell me what you thought ! Don't worry about Greg, he's a tough one - and he's got a Mycroft to take care of him.  
> I hope you stay happy and healthy!

"...understand that, sir, and I have taken the liberty of bringing tea with me. One does not want to taste this facility's beverage - I dare say the term tea is used quite liberally in that case."

"Thank you, Anthea. That should be all."

Greg flexed his fingers. The last thing he remembered was the car swerving, then the cold... It made him shiver just remembering it.

The shiver brought to his attention his bruised ribs and he inhaled shakily.

"Gregory?"

Greg tried to speak but what came out was a lengthy cough.

"Do not trouble yourself with speaking, my dear. You were brought to a private establishment. You are perfectly safe and so is little Mr Brown."

Greg stretched his lips in a small smile. Mycroft knew exactly how to answer the questions he couldn't ask.

"Now, I believe the doctor suggested water and rest. I shall notify him you're back on your feet."

The term was used generously. It took another few days for Greg to be able to regain his strength. Well, his arm was in a sling and his voice kept getting raspy but overall he felt good enough to come back home.

During this time, Mycroft stayed by Greg's side. He seemed to guess what he needed before he had to ask, be it a glass of water or another blanket.

Mycroft insisted to escort Greg from the car to his flat. He looked worried Greg was going to faint.

"You look pale, my dear. Do you need to rest?"

"I know I don't look my best but I can handle five meters of careful walking."

"I - My apologies. Sherlock has reflected many times upon my "mother hen" attitude, as he put it. I now realize I have been smothering you with my assistance."

"Of course not. Sherlock can be a thankless idiot, sometimes." Greg fetched his keys in his pocket. "Although, to be honest, I'm rather surprised you managed to spend so much time without working."

As they entered the flat, Mycroft put an arm around Greg's waist and guided him to the sofa. It was, therefore, a few moments before he spoke.

"I confess I- you see, when my brother called me, I didn't really- well, I didn't stop to consider the consequences of my actions. I booked the next flight to London and I ran to your side. Anthea has been managing in my stead - under my supervision, of course."

"Well, I'm not complaining." Greg smiled; Mycroft didn't return it. He seemed to be filled with a frantic energy that didn't resemble him at all. "Mycroft?"

"Gregory. I realize this may feel a bit sudden, and yet- I didn't want to trouble you with my feelings while you were recovering but now that you seem-"

"Wait." Greg put a hand on Mycroft's arm. Whether that was to anchor himself or Mycroft, he didn't know. "Your feelings?"

"Yes, you see, when I heard about your near-drowning... And then I saw you, almost as white as the sheets... I was unable to function properly. I - well, I confess I am fiercely in love with you."

For a few seconds, Greg just stared in amazement at Mycroft. Then he regained his senses and he leapt in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft frowned in front of Greg's reckless movement but it hadn't brought the pain Mycroft was expecting. In fact, Greg was grinning so broadly it was hard to remember he was in a clinic a few hours before.

"I love you too, Mycroft."

They met in a kiss and for a while, nothing else mattered.


	16. The Speech

"Come on, Sherlock. We talked about this. I'm not gonna let you improvise your speech."

"Why not?" Sherlock turned up his nose. "Do you actually believe I will write notes?"

"No, God forbid the incredible genius Sherlock Holmes bring notes for his best man speech," John muttered under his breath, though his irritation mostly came from Sherlock's latest experiment - the newly-burnt spot on his favourite chair was a painful price to pay for science.

Sherlock paced from one side of the room to the other, oblivious to the test tubes dangling from his fingers.

"Fine." Sherlock abruptly stopped, and thankfully neither of the men noticed the corrosive that had dripped on the rug. "I'll say my speech so you can see how well-prepared I am."

"I'm pretty sure you managed to insult your brother somewhere in there. I'd rather your speech isn't remembered as the rudest show of brotherly affection ever displayed."

Sherlock grinned and John sighed. Really, he shouldn't have tempted him.

"Firstly, let me lay down some ground rules. Please smoke if you feel the urge but I'll ask you to direct the smoke away from the grooms - they're trying to quit if it wasn't obvious."

"Sherlock, you can't ask people to smoke. It might seem like a joke but you know your uncle Alfred will light up his pipe."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, people will think it rude if I smoke and they can't."

"You will not smoke. You just said your brother and Greg are trying to quit, remember?"

Sherlock sighed and mentally ran through the rest of his speech. He could hear John's future remarks for each sentence.

Deleting the whole thing, Sherlock took a deep breath. He would just invent another speech. John wouldn't notice.

"Mycroft and Greg met about a year ago, under heavy rain. If you listen to them, they'll tell you with stars in their eyes that it was love at first sight - though everyone knows soulmates don't exist. My flatmate would probably complain if I started explaining to you the intricacies of the science of attraction - though I have dedicated a whole section of it in my blog, the Sc-" Sherlock met John's eyes. "Ahem. When Mycroft first rented our flat - paying it by working at all hours on top of his studies, he couldn't have anticipated what his decision would have led him to. I confess that even I didn't see it coming."

"Dial down the self-praise, Sherlock."

"But I was actually-" Sherlock huffed at John's agitated hand motion but he complied. "The real wonder is that my brother and my colleague" Sherlock refused to call Lestrade his superior "didn't cross paths when they went to my flat, or when they attended the same Christmas party, but through the joint effort of getting Fuzzy back to its rightful owner."

"So it took you six months to remember Greg's name, but Fuzzy is the most important thing of your mental palace?"

"Technically, I've known Fuzzy the longest." Sherlock sniffed.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Everything else you said was great, though. How does it end?"

"I'm sure you'd like the entire tale of their love story, but Mycroft couldn't be asked to starve any long-" John extended his leg and kicked Sherlock's shin. "I mean, you are surely starving. Let's simply say that through a series of unfortunate Thursdays, they fell in love. Let's raise our glasses to the newly-weds." Sherlock raised an imaginary glass in the air and winked at John.

"That was amazing, Sherlock. Would you be able to tell it again at the wedding?"

Sherlock raised his brow. "You mean you haven't typed it?" At John's horrified look, he added: "Honestly, John, I was joking."

John smiled. "I think they'll love it."

Sherlock grinned. "Who do you think will cry first, Mycroft or Gavin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you so much to all of you who followed the story while I was updating it, your comments encouraged me to continue.


End file.
